


Minor Hiccups and Major Disasters

by Era_Penn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Burps, Crack, Deadpool - Freeform, Farting, Gen, Hiccups, Humor, Sneezing, coughs, heheh, hungry rumbles, ruined missions, second grade humor, throwing up, worshipful deadpool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Era_Penn/pseuds/Era_Penn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Natasha and Clint are on a super-sneaky spy mission, slipping past the bad guys, and one of them (bonus for Natasha) gets the hiccups, and compromises the whole mission.</p><p>Or, six times an Avenger ruins an undercover op with regular bodily functions, and the one time it helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minor Hiccups and Major Disasters

**Natasha has the Hiccups**

It’s a mission years upon years in the making. Undercover agent after undercover agent has risked their lives, and in some cases lost them, to get the necessary information on the facility. Only after verifying the location four times did Fury send in agents to discover more about the situation. More about the place. More about its weaknesses.

And of course, for AIM headquarters, nothing less than his absolute best would do.

Clint and Natasha are the best. 

And that, Natasha thinks mournfully, is exactly where she went wrong. If she wasn’t the best, she wouldn’t have to deal with all the slimiest, smelliest, stickiest, and explosive-iest villains. Nor would she currently be crawling around in the ductwork with Clint Barton. Exhaling lightly through her mouth, she was tempted to sigh. 

She walks a constant fine line between being very glad Clint is her best friend and has always got her back, and killing him. Today she’s leaning towards the latter. He’s ahead of her, feet practically in her face, and they _stink_. Like old combat boots that have been in war zones. She can’t even scoot back a few inches, because they can hear the guards standing under their position _breathing_. If she or Clint so much as scratch their noses, the guards will hear them. And really, the guards should have moved on by now, but there’s a TV with some big football game playing in this hallway, so they’re lingering.

If the guards hear the two assassins in the vents, they _will_ open fire, and it is unlikely she or Clint can dodge in the confined space.

“Hic!”

Natasha freezes, her eyes widening. _Shit_ , did she just -

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” the guard’s partner replies.

Natasha feels another hiccup building in her chest, and taps Clint’s ankle, because they _really needed to move_.

“Hic!”

The guards open fire and start calling backup. Luckily, Clint had taken the hint and started moving as soon as she’d tapped him, so they were just ahead of the firing. As the shooting died down, they froze to hide their new location in the vents, just around the corner.

Natasha shuts her eyes and grits her teeth. “Hic!”

“Fuck,” Clint mutters, and starts moving again. “I am never, ever letting you live this down -”

“Less talking, more - hic! - moving!” Natasha is definitely leaning towards murder, at this point. If she kills him here, she can pass it off as AIM interference, and then no one ever has to know…

“Hic!”

“There!” A guard hollers below them, and the shooting starts again.

Four bullet wounds, three dozen knives, and two stolen flash drives later, Clint is sitting backwards on a motorcycle while Natasha drives and calls for backup, still hiccupping. She can hear Tony trying very, very hard not to laugh at her as he gives her an ETA of eight minutes. She’ll avoid punishing him too terribly for it later, then, but she’ll have to think of an appropriate punishment for Clint and Steve, whom she can hear sniggering in the background. 

“Hiccups,” he’s still snickering behind her. “I just got shot three times and blew one of the biggest SHIELD ops in history because _the Black Widow had the hiccups_.

Oh, he was definitely going to regret that.

* * *

**Tony Sneezes like a Kitten**

“This is a terrible idea,” Tony hisses.

“And yet here you are,” Natasha replies.

“Just note, that if this goes to hell in a handbasket, I objected strenuously.”

“Noted,” Clint says, drily.

“Good,” Tony replies. “I’m really not made for super-secret-spy missions. I’m not subtle. Subtlety is really not my strong suit.”

“Yeah, we tried that argument,” Clint agrees, “But Fury wasn’t buying it. Now shut up, we’re coming into the drop zone.”

Tony sighs, but obeys, biting his tongue to stop himself from making noise. Sure, he knew that the real reason Fury assigned him this mission is because the high-tech gadgets in the HYDRA facility below them necessitate an actual hard connection to hack into, and he’s the best and fastest hacker around, but really. 

“Now,” Natasha says, and Tony jumps out of the plane with her and Clint, still pouting against the whipping, cold night air.

He just isn’t built to crawl through dusty vents or sneak around giant bases. He’s Iron Man. He’s supposed to come blazing in, gleaming in the sunlight, with his favorite sound track playing on the external speakers. 

Tony pulls his chute at Clint’s signal.

The point of him is to be a big, shiny distraction, so his sneaky teammates can be sneaky without dying!

Yet here he is, landing on a roof with his teammates, unclipping the biodegradable parachute, and watching it drift away, wishing he was going with it.

“Come on, Stark,” Clint says lowly. “Sooner we get this done, the sooner you can go back to the red and gold.”

Tony nods, still biting his tongue. If he opens his mouth right now, he’s going to start whining, and that is not conducive to general sneakiness. 

Natasha wrenches a panel on the roof free of the stonework, and they all drop in, Tony in between the two assassins. One to show him where to go, one to shove if he somehow gets stuck.

He’s barely holds in a grumble when he realizes it is, in fact, really, really dusty.

They make it to the computer room without incident, which, Tony thinks, is a miracle. Especially considering his usual ability to attract trouble. Judging by the looks on Clint and Natasha’s faces, they agree with him. Tony heads straight to the mainframe, Clint and Natasha taking up lookout positions. Tony sighs, tries to shake off some of the dust, and takes his first proper breath since they arrived. He promptly doubles over and covers his mouth and nose.

Shit, shit, shit, that itches. He needs to sneeze, but he can’t, because then they’ll all die. Clint and Natasha watch him warily, but not without sympathy. They’ve been there.

Eventually, the irresistible urge to sneeze fades a bit, and Tony starts typing as fast as he can. Just when he thinks he’s managed not to sneeze and relaxes, the sensation comes back, so suddenly he can’t possibly hope to stop it.

“Shi - ACHOO!” he sneezes. Because he’s trying to make it quieter, it of course explodes with the force of a typhoon. Even worse, it’s a kitten sneeze. High-pitched, and the sound carries surprisingly far for such a generally little noise. “Achoo! Achoo!” He sneezes twice more in quick succession.

“Fuck,” Clint says. “Type faster Stark, we’re out of time.”

Tony waves him off, trying not to sneeze again - to no avail. His watering eyes are making it tricky to see what he needs to, so he shuts them and starts navigating by memory. It doesn’t take him more than three minutes to get the data they need. In those three minutes, two things have happened: Clint and Natasha have moved all available furniture and technology in the room to form a barricade over the door, and someone outside of it has located a battering ram. 

“Stark, we need to move!” Natasha snaps.

“I _told_ you this was a bad idea!” Tony snaps back, throwing the flash drive at her. 

“No time!” Clint yells, and Natasha vaults off his shoulders into the vent. He cups his palms and Tony steps into them, and is summarily launched upwards. He manages to catch the edges of the vent and pull himself up. A few long moments later, he hears Clint make the vent behind him and slide the grate into place.

Now there’s only one problem. They’re back in the dusty vents, and the urge to sneeze is building again.

“Dammit,” Tony gripes, and moves faster. This is going to be a long trip.

* * *

**Thor Burps Really Loud**

Contrary to popular belief, Thor is actually capable of being quiet. He moves like a panther when it’s required. Because of this, Clint and Natasha actually like taking him on some of the undercover missions where he can actually fit into the crawl spaces or alleys they need to sneak down. It’s like having a giant, silent, deadly grizzly bear as backup.

So when they’re assigned to observe an exchange on a dinky little pier in the middle of nowhere, Clint and Natasha take Thor along.

Clint and Thor crouch on a building with a good vantage point, while Natasha slinks around on the ground being sneaky. Justin Hammer and MODOK seem to be getting along, which Clint supposes makes sense. They’re both slimy, greedy assholes. Neither of them have realized Clint, Thor and Natasha are watching, either. Clint makes a mental note to tell Tony his new stealth tech is doing very well, and not to tell Phil he agreed to test said stealth equipment on this mission. Thor lounges quietly next to him, eyes closed. Thor generally tags along more as backup than anything. He probably could make a good report, but he hates them, so he leaves that to Natasha and Clint.

Then, as Clint glances over at him, Thor’s mouth opens.

What emerges Clint at first mistakes for a roar. It lasts a good minute, possibly even two, and Clint catches the faint scent of eggs. It rumbles like a cat’s purr, and the echoes bounce off the walls of the surrounding warehouses. 

Thor closes his mouth and looks at Clint guiltily, but Clint isn’t even mad.

“That,” he says, “was _epic_.”

Thor looks very satisfied by the Burp of all Burps, as it will later be called, for all of two seconds. Then everyone else reacts.

“Find the rats!” MODOK snarls, and all of his goons and Hammer's jump up and start searching for the three hidden Avengers.

“Okaytimetogo,” Clint says, grabs his gear, and books it for the other edge of the roof. He takes the leap to the next one easily, hearing Thor land behind him.

“ _If we live, I’m going to kill you,_ ” Natasha’s voice echoes over their comms.

Clint winces.

“I apologize,” he hears Thor rumble behind him.

“ _That said,_ ” Natasha replies, “ _that was epic._ ”

“Right?!” Clint exclaims, and then he’s a bit too busy dodging gunfire to worry about the Burp.

* * *

**Steve gets Hungry a lot**

Steve signals Clint to go left and Natasha right, and waits at the intersection. They’re back fast, both delivering reports under their breath. 

To the left, Clint says, the random villain of the week is somehow managing to actually keep Tony Stark quiet and in a cell. That’s worrying. Steve doesn’t like it when Tony gets quiet; it never ends well for anyone. There are a dozen guards in a break room across from Tony, but they’re not paying very close attention. There’s a soccer game on.

To the right, Natasha informs him, there’s a machine. Undoubtedly, whatever it is, Tony’s had a crack at it. That means it’s a secondary priority, since it’s probably rigged to blow up anyway. There are also three guards, all of them looking bored and not particularly tough.

Steve signals them to go right first. As much as he wants to get to Tony as soon as possible, he’d rather make sure they don’t have random guards coming up behind them. It only takes three minutes to take care of the three guards and get back to the intersection, all in perfect silence. Then Steve signals them left, towards Tony.

The billionaire looks up when Clint taps lightly on the bars of his cell, and his eyes widen a bit as Clint produces his lock picks. Steve stifles a snicker; someone’s duct taped Tony’s mouth shut, though he sort of doesn’t blame them. He’s a bit worried about why Tony hasn’t simply ripped it off, though, considering his hands have enough leeway to manage it.

Clint’s lock picks click and the door opens easily. They’re lucky, for once; the hinges don’t so much as squeak. Tony holds up an oily rag and even with the duct tape, Steve can practically see the smirk. They get Tony up and moving, hands untied and leaning against Clint; there’s something wrong with one of his ankles. 

Steve breathes in, thinking about what to do next. They could just leave, but they also have a prime opportunity here to get a lot of information off the database.

The smell of the guards’ pizza drifts through the air.

Steve’s stomach grumbles a little, then settles. He raises his hands to signal Clint and Natasha to get them back towards the entrance; he’s becoming increasingly worried about Tony’s continuing refusal to take off the tape. 

Then he catches another whiff of pizza, and his stomach doesn’t just grumble. It growls with the ferocity of a starving wild tiger.

The door to the break room bangs open, and they all freeze as Steve meets the stunned guard’s eyes. Natasha snaps out of it fastest, moving to take the man down, but she isn’t quite quick enough to stop him from pushing the red panic button at his waist.

Alarms start blaring, lights start flashing, and all hell breaks loose.

Finally, Tony rips the duct tape off. “Not my fault,” he announces. Steve makes a mental note to make sure medical checks Tony for some kind of drug before Steve eats, because that sounded a little slurred. Then Tony’s a bit too busy trying to catch his breath and avoid further damaging his already injured ankle as they book it for the exit to try and talk more.

Clint more than makes up for it. “Steve,” he pants, half carrying the billionaire, “Next time we head out on a mission, make sure you eat something first. Otherwise, just munch on a guard.”

“Gross!”

* * *

**Bruce and Smoke are not Friends**

“Eyes on,” Natasha murmurs, leaning into flirting distance as she looks past Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Remind me why Clint couldn’t do this again?”

“He’s our eyes in the sky. See him, Clint?”

Bruce finally spots Clint leaning on the railing of the upper floor, apparently chatting up a leggy blonde. “ _Yeah, I see him,_ he hears through the comm. 

Bruce pulls his eyes away and back onto Natasha, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the stink of alcohol and smoke mingling in the bar. “But really, though,” he murmurs, “did I have to come for this one?”

“We’ve been trying to track him down for weeks,” Natasha reminds him, “And there’s no else available I can’t kill with my pinky and a straw wrapper.”

“If he sees me, we’re screwed,” Bruce points out.

“Well then, I guess he’d better not see you.”

Bruce opens his mouth to reply, because she’s just jinxed it, and gets a mouthful of smoke from their neighbor at the bar. He promptly starts hacking and coughing like he is dying, gasping desperately for a breath of clean air. He doesn’t notice Natasha’s eyes widening or hear her frantic, “shit!” as the whole bar looks at him.

Including their stalkee for the evening. One General Thaddeus Ross.

Bruce doesn’t remember much more of the evening, but he’s told he’s no longer allowed on undercover missions, which is probably for the best.

* * *

**Phil Coulson Hates Food Poisoning**

Phil really, really regrets that last cup of coffee. He and Natasha are ducking around corners and through doorways almost silently. The whole facility is dim, the lights not as bright overnight. For the most part, the scientists Doom employed were allowed sleep through the night hours, and to keep all the lights on at full power would have been a waste of resources.

Natasha signals Phil around the corner, and his stomach lurches as he ducks around it and moves to check the next one. He swallows carefully.

Definitely regretting the coffee. Clearly he needs to get a health inspector to visit the dingy little cafe where they’d finally located the life-giving substance. He’ll mention it in his report, have a few different agents make anonymous tips to the health department…

He swallows again and decides to avoid thinking about coffee or food for at least the next half hour. Get the drive, get out. Easy-peasy, especially with Natasha as his partner. He signals her to the next corner, and she slides past him with a slightly worried look. Yeah, so he is moving a little slower than usual. It’s better than losing his lunch all over the floor.

His stomach just roils worse the closer they get to the center of the compound. They round the corner to slip past the cafeteria, and the smell of coffee seeps into the hallway.

That’s it.

Coulson bends over and lost every bit of the coffee and lunch from earlier in the day all over the floor. It isn’t exactly quiet against the slick tiled floor. There’s a long, long moment where the only sound is Phil dry-heaving, nothing left, and then shouts echo from the cafeteria. An alarm goes off somewhere.

Natasha grabs him by the arm and physically drags him forward and around a corner. He loses track of where they’re going, trying control his roiling stomach. A migraine setting in and clamminess settling into his skin make him groan a little. Icing on the cake.

Natasha pulls him into a bathroom, sits him in a stall, and firmly tells him to wait.

Phil nods, closes his eyes and leans back against the stall wall. Thank God Natasha can salvage the situation herself.

At least they didn’t bring Clint. He’d never hear the end of it.

* * *

**Clint gets Gassy After Eating Mexican**

Deadpool is muttering to himself under his breath, but it’s close enough to silent that Clint decides it’s not worth risking an argument to tell him to shut up. He’s tempted to start grumbling himself. Wade Wilson may be highly skilled, but he’s also generally a nuisance. Didn’t SHIELD normally get Spider-Man to play babysitter? The younger hero was definitely better at it.

Clint shimmies through the crawlspace between rooms expertly. He’s not going to ask how Deadpool knew about it. He’s not going to think about what else has been there. And he’s definitely not going to think about the rival gangs meeting on either side of said crawlspace.

Probably a good thing they didn’t get Spidey for this one. He could give Tony a run for his money in the ‘incapable of being silent’ department.

At least, Clint supposes, working with Deadpool always meant good food. Wilson could locate the best Mexican place in the whole city by scent alone, and he knows good Mexican. Clint isn’t sure the mercenary ever eats anything else. 

There’s only one problem with Mexican, Clint thinks, and it’s the beans.

Then the fart escapes. It’s loud, though thankfully not particularly smelly. It sounds more like a chain of farts strung together in a massive, bubbly eruption of gas.

Silence falls on both sides of the wall. “Wow,” a dry voice says eventually. “You lot act like that in front of your mothers?”

Clint drops as flat as possible as Deadpool does the same in front of him. Bullets are tearing back and forth through the wall, chaos erupting between the two gangs. Apparently, the arrangement they were making isn’t going to work out. After a few minutes, silence falls, broken only by the vague groans of injured gangsters and drug lords.

Deadpool turns and looks at Clint with adoring eyes. “You just took out two gangs with a _fart_ ,” he says worshipfully.

Clint groans. There go all his chances of keeping this quiet.

Or of getting any quiet at all, ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> To my friend E.S. Many thanks as usual to Hawkwind1980 for all her help beta-ing. :)
> 
> ~Era


End file.
